


Signs of Life

by round_robin



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Baby Witchers, Bad Puns, Canonical Character Death, Domestic Fluff, Hand Jobs, Kaer Morhen, M/M, Minor Character Death, The Witcher Lore, Witcher Signs, Witchers in training
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-03
Updated: 2020-06-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:21:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24519886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/round_robin/pseuds/round_robin
Summary: “I never should have introduced you two,” Geralt hissed. Lambert, standing right next to him, legs wide, arms open ready to catch, smirked. “I'm fucking serious. First winter I bring him by and you're going to break him.”
Relationships: Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion/Lambert
Comments: 65
Kudos: 569





	Signs of Life

**Author's Note:**

> This came from a post on tumblr, where a user suggested Jaskier invented a game called "Aard the Bard" because he wanted to fly through the air. It got worse from there. I decided to do a little ficlette of every Sign and I can only apologize for the puns.
> 
> Five little slices of life for the Witchers and Jaskier. I posted them all on my tumblr and put them all together here. Heavily influenced by game lore, but I hope it's easy enough to pick up and follow. Enjoy :)
> 
> I'm round--robin on tumblr for similar nonsense.

Aard the Bard

“I never should have introduced you two,” Geralt hissed. Lambert, standing right next to him, legs wide, arms open ready to catch, smirked. “I'm fucking serious. First winter I bring him by and you're going to break him.”

“Relax. Song bird's tougher than he looks,” Lambert said.

Said song bird—Jaskier—waved at them from up on the outer wall, Eskel standing nearby, no doubt going over last minute details. Geralt was sure Eskel would have taken his side, he was level headed like that, but as soon as Jaskier learned about Signs and what Aard did— “Wait, you can fucking throw people into the air?” —there was no talking him out of it. Eskel knew the better part of friendship was helping your friends do stupid shit in a safe way, and agreed to help.

It was Eskel's idea to lay out the hay all around the courtyard. Just in case they didn't catch him. “But we'll catch him,” Lambert said over and over. He was trying to get Geralt to believe him, but Geralt hadn't bought a single word out of Lambert's mouth for a solid two decades. The Sign was down to Eskel, which was probably a mistake, he might send Jaskier too far...

Up on top of the ramparts, Jaskier checked to see if Geralt and Lambert were in place before turning to Eskel. The light of an insane idea flared in his eyes and Eskel couldn't help but shake his head. No wonder Jaskier and Lambert got along. “Ready?” he asked.

“Ready.” Jaskier opened his arms and stood at the very edge of the wall, his head tilted back to look at the sky. The crazy fucker wasn't even going to watch to make sure they caught him. Stepping back, Eskel lunged forward, releasing a weak Aard.

A blast of force pushed Jaskier off the wall and into the air, gusting wind whipping past his ears. The cry that came from his lips was one of pure joy, completely oblivious to Geralt's panic and Lambert's raucous laughter on the ground as they scrambled to get under him, ready to catch. In his last seconds of glorious flight, Jaskier arched his back and stretched out his limbs, the air rushing past.

Four strong arms caught him, Geralt under his back, one of Lambert's hands on his ass. Jaskier's heart raced, beating so furiously, Vesemir probably heard it across the keep. “Woo!” Jaskier let out a whoop of triumph. “Again!”

“No.” Geralt wrestled him from Lambert's grasp and ran a hand over Jaskier's back, neck, head and chest, checking for injures. “Eskel!” he shouted. “That was too strong!”

“No it wasn't.” Skin humming, heart pounding, Jaskier pressed himself against Geralt's chest, making sure the Witcher felt what else got excited by the fall. “Please? One more. Then we can go back to your room if you like.”

Geralt slid his hand down Jaskier's back, cupping his ass. Hard cock pressed into his side, he growled at Jaskier's temptations. “Fine. One more.”

Jaskier shot out of his arms and climbed the stack of barrels back up to the top of the rampart. Leave alone the fact that there were stairs nearby, he was too excited for stairs. Eskel caught him before he had a chance to topple off the side of the wall and they waited for Geralt and Lambert to get into position.

Streaking through the air, Jaskier felt so light and free. It was a short flight, only a few seconds, but those few seconds were well worth it, the exhilaration of the fall topped only by the feel of strong arms around him when he reached the ground. Geralt pulled him in close and rubbed their noses together. “That's enough for today. Maybe you can do it again tomorrow.” That manic light sparked again in Jaskier's eyes and Geralt quickly tamped it down. “I said maybe. Don't get ahead of yourself.”

Jaskier thanked Eskel and Lambert for the fun and let Geralt sweep him back into the castle, back to the warm bed in his quarters, where he made Jaskier shout for a different reason.

* * *

Axii Practice

“I hate this,” Lambert hissed between his teeth.

Varin rolled his eyes. The sword master was a mean bastard with zero scruples about pushing children to their limit, then beating them when they didn't measure up to his unattainable high standards. So it truly said something about Lambert when Varin would rather roll his eyes and grind his teeth instead of punish him. All the masters learned long ago: beatings got them exactly nowhere with Lambert, he'd had enough before he entered Kaer Morhen's gates to know how to take them. Now, he needed patience and only the occasional boot up the ass, or so Barmin was fond of telling the other instructors.

“Training dummies don't teach a damn thing when it comes to Signs,” Varin growled. “Much less how to keep your wits about you when someone tries to do magic. Most magic doesn't work on a Witcher—but some still does. We need to train for the some. Now, divide up into pairs. One casts the Sign, the other tries to resist. First boy to drop his sword sharpens every blade in the castle. Begin!”

Lambert looked to his right for his friend Leo, another stray Vesemir brought home. Only in Leo's case, he was an orphan of war, not a boy who just wished his father dead. Leo nodded and they squared off, his fingers practicing the shape of the first Sign. “You wanna go first?”

“Nah, wanna get it over with.” Lambert gripped his sword tight and rolled his shoulders. “C'mon, hit me.”

Leo twitched out a practice Sign one more time before throwing the real one. Fingers forming the complicated gesture, he threw his hand out. “Axii! Drop your sword!”

Leo's voice filled his mind, weak, barely a whisper. _Isn't that sword heavy, Lambert? Do you still want to hold it? You don't need to, don't need to fight..._ Lambert tensed all his muscles, holding onto his sword with every ounce of his strength. He wasn't going to listen to those soft, convincing words, not when the price was a sleepless night polishing stupid Witcher cutlery.

Across from him, sweat started to bead on Leo's forehead. _Come on, Lambert, isn't that sword so very heavy? Why don't you drop it?_

Grinding his teeth so hard his jaw popped, Lambert shook his head. Pain prickled down his shoulders, not as bad as a cane, more like a bad sunburn. Manageable. His jaw felt wired shut when all he wanted to do was shout and run back, get away from the controlling Sign.

 _Lambert_ , Leo's whisper voice in his head said again, _you want to drop the sword. Drop your sword!_

Lambert shook himself and managed to step back, breaking the hold of the Sign over him. They both let out a breath and staggered back. Varin's eyes flicked over to them, saw they both had their swords, and went back to surveying the other boys.

“Sorry,” Leo whispered. “You know I don't wanna do it—”

“It's fine.” Lambert stepped back into position, but he wouldn't meet Leo's eyes. “My turn now?”

“Yeah. Go ahead.”

Across the courtyard, a sword fell to the dirt, a boy landing next to it. “Cullen!” Varin shouted, stomping over. “Sword duty for you! Everyone else, keep working!”

They finished out the lesson, blocking Igni with Quen; trying to hold their feet when a strong Aard meant to knock them back. The other Signs were fine, Lambert could handle them, but after a day of magic, which made most of the boys buzz with excitement—fighting monsters was disgusting and dangerous, but magic seemed like the only good part of being a Witcher—Lambert still had the feel of someone else clawing under his skin. No matter how many times he shook himself, told himself that it was over, the violation was still there, someone else's voice in his head telling him what to do. He didn't like following orders at the best of times, let alone when they were a trick in his mind.

He wasn't on sword duty, but his brain wouldn't calm down. After dinner, after lights out, Lambert slipped from his bunk and sharpened his dagger by the weak light of the fire, the repetitive motion of the whetstone singing over the steel bringing a little calm to his mind.

A small noise behind made Lambert jump to his feet, dagger pointed into the darkness. “It's just me,” Leo whispered. Lambert sat back down on the cold floor, Leo plopping next to him, so close, their shoulders brushed together. They sat in silence for a moment, watching the fire die, listening to the soft breath of the boys around them. A bunk in the back, someone tossed and turned—a nightmare. Lambert hated the nightmares, so he learned just not to sleep.

“I'm sorry,” Leo whispered.

“Not your fault. You had to.”

“Still.” He leaned in, nudging Lambert softly. “I know you don't like things in your head. I don't want to be the cause of it.” The only soft touches he felt these days were from Leo, whether it was sitting together like this or a calming hand on his back.

At first, Lambert tried not to get attached to the other boys, he knew most wouldn't make it... but when Leo survived, when Leo was always there right next to him, he let himself have a friend. He saw it in the older Witchers, the ones already on The Path. While they seemed cold and cruel when they looked at the new class of canon fodder (that's what some of the nasty ones called them) they laughed and smiled with each other, carousing and playing games in winter when the keep was full to bursting. Two in particular—Eskel and Geralt—Lambert always saw them together, laughing and joking with the others, but there was a softness in their eyes when Eskel looked at Geralt or vice versa. Life as a Witcher was brutal and without love, but if deep friendship, or maybe more, still existed here...

Lambert set down his dagger and leaned into Leo's side. The other boy let out a shocked little huff before shifting to a better position, his arm bracing on the stone floor behind them, so close to Lambert's own, fingers almost touching. “Leo, if we both... survive, I want us to always be friends.”

“Like Geralt and Eskel?” Ah, so Leo saw them too. It wasn't difficult to pick them out from the sea of black armor, what with Geralt's striking white hair, and Eskel was always next to him.

“Yeah. Face it, the rest of our lives are gonna suck, but if we have each other...”

Leo leaned in closer, his scent surrounding Lambert. “You have me already, Lambert,” he whispered.

A dull, throbbing heat inside Lambert's chest spurred him to turn, look into Leo's eyes, still brown, still human. Without thinking, he leaned forward and pressed their lips together, a quick kiss, but it was more than enough. “I want to use my emotions before they take them away,” he offered in explanation.

Leo leaned in for another small kiss, smiling against Lambert's lips. “Fine with me.”

Years later, Lambert learned that he got to keep his emotions after all. Just sucked that he had to figure it out watching Leo's funeral pyre.

* * *

Igni-te My Fire

Geralt had the best room. There was no contest. Lambert's room had two outside walls, making it the coldest fucking place inside the castle some days, and Eskel just got his window fixed at the beginning of this season. For the past few years, the crack in the glass expanded little by little each winter, threatening to break... But Geralt's room was always perfect: small-ish window that provided just enough light in the day but didn't lose too much heat; a chimney that never seemed to back up; squishy arm chair for reading a book from one of his many shelves; and the largest bed they could salvage from the wreckage.

Well, the bed part might be down to them all. On especially cold nights, Lambert wandered in, complaining about the draft in his room. Eskel, who always slipped into Geralt's room hours earlier, shoved over to make room. It was a tight squeeze the first few winters, Lambert fighting for the blankets and furs, so Geralt scoured the castle for a larger bed frame and dragged it across the landing into his room. The arguments continued, but now it was about Eskel's cold feet instead of Lambert's freezing balls.

While Jaskier was broader than he looked at first glance—muscles strong from toting his lute and walking across the Continent while Geralt rode—he fit nicely in between them all and suddenly, Geralt's mammoth bed didn't seem so big. Now, it was a cozy nest for all of them. With Lambert snoring loud enough to wake the ghosts of Witchers long passed, Jaskier pressed against his chest, and Eskel half dozing in Geralt's arms, only the White Wolf couldn't find sleep at the moment.

A chill he rarely felt crept in, making him hold Eskel tighter. He blamed it on the earliness of the season. He and Jaskier only arrived at Kaer Morhen a week ago, and while the bard settled into the lazy rhythm of winter like a duck to water, Geralt's mind had yet to quiet itself. His last few contracts flickered behind his eyes, showing him everything he did wrong, every foot out of place, every strike that was just a little too slow. When they finished the major repairs and training began next week, he'd ask Vesemir to go over some of the basics with him. Geralt really needed to—

“You're thinking too loud,” Eskel grumbled. “It's keeping me awake.”

Geralt smiled. “Are you sure it isn't Lambert's snoring?”

A particularly loud snort vibrated through the air and Eskel had to bite his tongue to hold his laughter in. “Might be part of it. But you are thinking to much.” Arms wrapped around Geralt, he squeezed and rubbed his face into Geralt's neck, silky white hair tangling around him a little. “You're home. Time to relax for a bit. Save the thinking for when training picks up.”

“Mmm.” Geralt took one of Eskel's hands in his, sliding it down his chest and resting it on his cock, which was quickly filling out. “Maybe you want to tire me out a little?”

Eskel chuckled. “Demanding bastard.”

“Yup.”

Shifting to lean on his elbow, Eskel pushed his free hand under Geralt's neck and leaned down, their lips a breath away. Oh so slowly, he traced one finger around the base of Geralt's cock before drawing it up, tracing the heavy vein. “Is this what you want?” he whispered.

“Yes.” Geralt sighed, hips stuttering a little to try and get more touch, but Eskel continued on his slow path, thumb gliding up, pushing foreskin back enough to tease at the head. “But do you know what else I want?”

“Tell me.”

“This.” Geralt leaned up just enough to touch their lips together, his tongue pressing inside Eskel's mouth. He mirrored the slow touches to his cock, licking up the center of Eskel's tongue before playing gently with the tip.

“Tease,” Eskel growled.

It didn't take long for Geralt to suck him in—the man was too good with his tongue, and too beautiful to resist—and Eskel took a moment to lick his hand before stroking from root to tip, making Geralt moan into his mouth. Sure, the oil was nearby, but moving to get it now would ruin the spontaneity of the midnight hand job.

Geralt broke the kiss and grunted (a little too loud, but Lambert and Jaskier managed to sleep through it) coming across Eskel's fingers. He slumped back into the bed and watched as Eskel licked his fingers clean, yellow eyes glowing in the dark. “So,” Eskel said with an obscene slurp. “You tired yet?”

“Mmm...” Geralt made a big show of stretching and getting comfortable. “One more thing?”

Eskel rolled his eyes but nodded. “Yes, what else do you need so we can both get some fucking sleep?”

He jutted his chin towards the fire, almost completely dead. “I'm getting cold.”

“No you're fucking not.” But Eskel assented, flicking his hand towards the low glowing hearth.

Flames flickered to life and Geralt smiled. “See? You're so good, you don't even need to use the words.”

Eskel rolled his eyes. “Flattery will get you nowhere.” They settled in bed, Eskel's erection pushing against the small of Geralt's back. It was late now and they were both tired, but Eskel had every confidence that Geralt would repay the favor in the morning.

* * *

Quen You Handle Me?

“Can you hurry up and find your fucking mushrooms? This is the third cave and I'm cold,” Lambert growled.

Jaskier rolled his eyes. He didn't even sigh, he stopped doing that after the litany of complaints in the first cave. “Not my mushrooms, they're for Vesemir, and you didn't have to come.” He tucked the basket under his arm and leaned around a rock, checking behind it for Vesemir's requested flora.

“Yes I did. Geralt doesn't trust you out on your own and I'm inclined to agree with him.” Lambert had never seen anyone so attracted to mortal peril in his very long life. But that was Jaskier, if he didn't run at things that might hurt him, he never would've gone near Geralt, and then they would never meet. So maybe the bard's slight disregard for his life was a good strategy for an intriguing existence, just not a long one without a little help.

“You and Eskel cleared these caves last week. No beast is stupid enough to come back so quick. Ah!” Over a pile of rocks, Jaskier saw his quarry growing up the side of the cave wall. “There they are. Wide, flat and yellow orange, just like Vesemir described. Give me a boost.”

“I don't think—” But Lambert already had a hand full of Jaskier, basket slung over his shoulder, both hands braced on Lambert's shoulders, foot in his hand. “I like it when you climb me,” he grunted, pushing Jaskier up towards the wall of the cave, “but this isn't what I had in mind.”

“Shush, I'll climb you like a tree as soon as we get these back to Vesemir.” Close enough to pull a few off the wall, Jaskier slid the basket from his shoulder and reached out.

In this particular position, Jaskier's hips were pressed right to Lambert's face. He didn't want to distract him in his delicate task, but boy was it tempting. “Good. And I'm talking full service. Let me watch you open yourself up, make those little sighing noises that I like, then you better ride me until I make you come at least twice.” Jaskier's cock twitched to life, pressing into Lambert's cheek.

“Don't fucking distract me.” The basket was barely half full. Jaskier _might_ be able to reach more. He adjusted his stance on Lambert's hand and went up on his tip toes to grab just the last two—

The pile of rocks Lambert braced on shifted, scattering all over the cave floor. Jaskier wobbled in his arms, but the Witcher held firm, one hand sliding up to Jaskier's ass for a better grip. “See? This is why they send me with you.”

“So you can feel me up?”

Whatever retort Lambert made was lost in the horrible scrapping of rocks. Grit rained down from the ceiling of the cave—an avalanche above them. “Fuck!” Lambert hissed and pulled Jaskier into his arms, pushing the bard down and covering his head as the cave ceiling started to come down on them.

The scrape and scratch of stone against stone was deafening. Jaskier leaned into Lambert, praying to every god or goddess he knew that they'd come through this. He heard the mountain trying to come down on top of them, but didn't feel a single blow, only Lambert's firm chest above him. If the Witcher took all the damage to keep him safe, Jaskier would never forgive himself if something happened. He didn't think he had the strength to drag a bloody and bruised Lambert back to the keep. Was there time to get the others before he froze?

Daylight streamed in above them, a slight orange tint to it. Jaskier looked up, expecting to see Lambert's smirk stained with blood. The smirk was there, the blood was not. The orange glow of the Quen shield around them had a few small fissures and cracks, nothing serious. Lambert waited a moment before letting it fall, waiting out last little bits of loose debris.

They stood up, Jaskier trembling in Lambert's arms, the basket of stupid mushrooms half crushed between them. “A-are, are you al-alright?” Jaskier stammered out.

Lambert chuckled, smoothing a hand through his hair, trying to calm his shakes. “Breathe, bard, breathe. We're alright. Just a little rock slide.” He peered up at the new hole in the roof and sighed. “Just made this cave a perfect griffin nesting ground. Gotta let Vesemir know for spring. Come on, let's head back.” He wrapped an arm around Jaskier's shoulders and led him out of the cave.

Jaskier didn't know how managed not to trip over his own feet. He leaned into Lambert until his shakes subsided. “Thank you,” he whispered. “You saved me.”

The arm around his shoulders squeezed him closer. “Of course I did. If I let you die, Eskel and Geralt wouldn't let me hear the end of it.” He pressed a kiss to the bend of Jaskier's neck, apologizing for his harsh joke. “We'll give Vesemir his stupid mushrooms, then how about you and me take a dip in the hot spring, yeah? It'll make you feel better.”

That actually sounded so lovely. Jaskier nodded. “Yes, let's do that.” He stopped, grabbing Lambert's jacket with his free hand and pulling him into a deep kiss. He licked into Lambert's mouth, enjoying the sticky heat of lunch time wine on his breath. When he pulled back, it was Lambert's turn to shake a bit. Jaskier smirked. “And after our bath, I'll climb you like a tree. I am a man of my word after all.”

* * *

Yrden in the Garden

Lambert glanced down, making sure they were both secure on the wall before they tried to throw things off it. Safety first. “Alright, the object of cabbage bowling isn't to knock other stuff _out_ of Vesemir's garden,” he said, handing Ciri a cabbage. “The object of cabbage bowling is to get the cabbage into the garden in the first place before Vesemir can throw it back at us. Vesemir has to be in the garden when you throw, and it's an automatic win if you hit him with the cabbage.” That had only happened once, the first time Lambert decided to pelt cabbages into the garden.

With only four (technically five, with Ciri now) Witchers to use the courtyard for training, Vesemir found he had a lot of extra space. It was a long year preparing the castle for winter and about a decade ago, he decided to plant a garden. Nothing fancy, just a small kitchen garden for vegetables that wouldn't fit in the greenhouse. He tried to plant an apple tree, but the soil wasn't right. After the first few seasons, the vegetables that garden produced were lush and delicious, Geralt wolfed down any potato-based dish and Lambert and Eskel frequently fought over the last helping of carrots. Even Ciri—a child where some dislike of vegetables was expected—ate her portions without complaint. The garden was a good addition to the keep, no one denied that.

While they all joked about him slowing in his old age, Vesemir loved his garden and guarded it as fiercely as he did his family. Hence the fun of chucking cabbages stolen from that same garden back at him.

Cabbages ready, Lambert signaled Ciri to hold her fire. Vesemir was outside the patch of dirt rummaging through his tools. The moment one foot hit the dirt, it was on. “Now!” Lambert hissed in her ear and they both launched their leafy missiles across the courtyard, towards Vesemir.

Ciri didn't ask questions like 'if we throw at the same time, how do we tell who wins?' That wasn't the point of the game. The point was, after a long morning of training, the young Witcher needed to blow off steam. Without the threat of a beating (like the way Lambert grew up) she was free to enjoy at least a partial childhood that life had denied her so far. Jaskier tried to inject a little fun into her life with songs and books that weren't about monsters, but fun really was Lambert's department and the bard needed to step back.

The cabbages sailed through the air, then hit the ground and started rolling. They were heavy and leafy, weight unevenly balanced and Lambert told her to expect this. Lambert and Ciri watched with wide eyes as their cabbages rolled towards Vesemir—even a soft bump against his boot was enough to consider a win. Without looking up, Vesemir threw out a hand, fingers forming a Sign. Purple light sprouted from the ground and the cabbages slowed to a stop, inches from the edge of the dirt patch.

“Fuck,” Lambert hissed. They sat back behind the wall. “Eyes in the back of his head, that old man.”

“But it was fun,” Ciri said, leaning into his arm. “Can we play tomorrow? I think we can get him next time.”

Lambert smirked and wrapped an arm around Ciri. She was a little she-devil who didn't hesitate to try and stab him during training, but this magical little goblin was the best thing Geralt brought to the keep since Jaskier. “Sure, kid, we can play tomorrow.”

They went to stand up when a cabbage hit Lambert in the back of the head, almost knocking him off the wall. “Stay away from my garden! It's bad enough when it's just you!” Vesemir shouted.

Lambert cursed and rubbed the back of his head. “Oh yeah, we're definitely playing tomorrow.”

**Author's Note:**

> Original tumblr post: https://dat-carovieh.tumblr.com/post/615226674397741056/jaskier-visits-kaer-morhen-and-invents-the-game


End file.
